


Stille Nacht (Silent Night)

by lil_1337



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Christmas, Christmas Music, Gen, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-24
Updated: 2006-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:30:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lil_1337/pseuds/lil_1337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trowa finds a moment of shared camaraderie in the midst of a war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stille Nacht (Silent Night)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darthanne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darthanne/gifts).



> A/N: While this is a work of fiction the event that is referenced actually did occur. For more information you can go here: <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christmas_truce>. In addition I would like to credit the song 'It could happen again' by Collin Raye. I would recommend it for everyone; though have tissues handy when you listen.

_Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht!  
Alles schläft; einsam wacht_

The sound of voices started out low and Trowa tensed, waiting for the shots that were sure to come. Fighting had been intense in this area of the western front. Despite the fact that it was now Christmas Eve they were still at war. Celebration had no place in battle it was a thing of peace. The no man's land between his unit and enemy territory was littered with bodies, most of them dead, but some that still had a few breaths of life left in them. They would lie there until the fighting moved on. Horrible reminders of the price men paid for ownership of a small piece of land.

The whistle of shells followed by the rocking waves of the explosion as they hit the ground were gone and the air wasn't just still it echoed. Suddenly devoid of any sound at all, it seemed as if the Earth itself was holding its breath in anticipation of what was to come. Through the smoke the sound of voices raised in song drifted across the frozen ground.

The song, when it finally reached made him startle in surprise. It was not something harsh and warlike, but a soft sound much like a lullaby. The words meant nothing to him as the little German he had picked up wasn't good for much more than ordering a pint or asking directions to the bathroom. He was just a regular grunt among so many, a world away from home and fighting for the right to keep living.

He cocked his head, frowning. There was something about the music that struck a familiar cord and without even thinking about it he began to hum along, softly at first then stronger as awareness dawned. This was as familiar of the warmth the hearth at home. It brought memories of Christmases past spent in the arms of his family. Reverently, he began to sing along, his voice cracking on the words.

_Sleep in heavenly peace  
Sleep in heavenly peace_

The music swelled around him and the individual voices were lost as the two enemy factions joined together, each in their own language, to express a common feeling and find a sense of unity in a world where meeting in the field of battle was a deadly serious exercise. For a moment though, they stepped outside of themselves and their countries and found an identity that belonged to them both.

Risking a look, Trowa raised up a little so he could see over the edge of the foxhole that had been his home for a minute or an eternity, it was hard to know. Across the expanse of unclaimed ground, men, soldiers for both sides were working their way out collecting the dead while the medics rendered aide to those who might still have a chance. It was beautiful and horrible at the same time, a shinning moment of candlelit hope and compassion in an ocean of darkness.

Allowing himself to slowly unbend his lanky frame, Trowa's eyes scanned the men on the other side of trench. They looked as tired and dirty as he knew he was. And yet, for the first time, he saw them as more than just /the enemy/ and he wondered if they felt the same longing for home that he did, the same fear and despair that the end of their lives was at hand.

In the midst of the group a blond sat on the ground, leaning back against a knapsack for support. The white bandages that encased his middle showed that he had clearly been wounded and yet, despite the pain it must have caused him, he held a violin under his chin, playing along in time, Trowa assumed. The notes of the instrument drowned in the ever-increasing tide of voices.

Without thinking, his eyes never leaving the blond, Trowa fished around in his rucksack, his hand catching the small cloth bag he kept buried at the bottom. He pulled it out and fitted together the pieces of his flute, a gift from his sister back home in London. When the instrument was complete he put it to his lips and began to play, still singing along in his head.

_Glories stream from heaven afar  
Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia!_

When the song ended the blond handed his violin to a giant of a man who took it, holding it gently in his huge hands. Moving slowly and carefully the soldier levered himself up off the ground and began to shuffle forward, gesturing for Trowa to do the same.  
After a moment of indecision, Trowa moved forward, his flute in his hand, his cautious steps taking him further and further from the relative safety of his foxhole. They met in the middle, Trowa's reluctance having kept pace with the other man's shuffling gait.

Underneath the dirt and blood Trowa could see a gentle soul, one that, like himself, was here on Christmas not because of desire to fight, but because others had made the decision and he had paid the price. Trowa smiled, a sense of connection he rarely felt, washing over him. The blond touched his chest and smiled. " Mein Name ist Quatre." He touched his chest again, wincing as the gesture aggravated his injury. "Quatre."

Trowa nodded and repeated, "Quatre." Unable to resist returning the bright smile that Quatre rewarded him with. "Trowa." He mimicked Quatre's gesture and touched his own chest. "You can call me Trowa."

"Tro~wa." Quatre tested out the unfamiliar sounds, smiling again. He then pointed to Trowa's flute and frowned. Speaking carefully, each word a struggle. "We play now? Friends? Yes?" He paused; frown deepening before a smile of triumph replaced it. "Merry Christmas."

"Yes." Trowa nodded his agreement, knowing that Quatre would understand the gesture. "Frohe Weihnachten."


End file.
